


The Adventure Of The Norwood Builder (1895)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [155]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Depression, Destiel - Freeform, Framing Story, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sabotage, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 10:24:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11438898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A case in the world of builders, where what goes up sometimes falls down sooner than expected, and the English weather frustrates a scheme that is pure folly!





	The Adventure Of The Norwood Builder (1895)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nirelian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nirelian/gifts).



It was a little over two weeks between the shocking conclusion to the Friesland case, and the arrival of our next one. It was also one of the strangest fortnights of my life.

I would have course have agreed to anything for Sherlock, but in all honesty I fully expected him to wake up the morning after his row with his brother Bacchus having calmed down, and to make his peace with his family. Instead he seemed even more focussed than usual, if that were possible, and insisted that same day on our going to Mr. Martinson and drawing up our wills, leaving all we had (save a few personal possessions of my mother's which I had promised to Sammy) to each other. All that energy with nowhere to go unnerved me, although he was even more passionate than usual when we coupled that night, whispering how much he loved me as he seemingly tried to snuggle inside my skin (I was still a manly man who could 'man' with the best of men, but for Sherlock, I would snuggle!).

In the days that followed, my friend remained unsettled, and I telegraphed the surgery to say that they would have to cover my patients for a time due to 'a family emergency'. Sherlock was even visibly upset when I went down to talk to Mrs. Singer one time, seemingly fearful that he would be left alone. It hurt me to see him broken like this, and I was determined to fix things. His brother Bacchus had come round two days after that fateful meeting, but he had flatly refused to see him, and I did not feel inclined to remove myself from the doorway. I knew he could have pushed me aside if he had wanted, but his brother’s rejection seemed to have drained all the fight out of the lounge-lizard, and he slunk away, back to whatever hell-hole he had crawled out of.

One week in, and Sir Charles and Lady Rebecca returned from the Continent. I only knew about this because Sherlock's sister Mrs. Thompson contrived to 'bump into me' at the local post office (quite impressive, as her husband's house was some miles away), and inquire after her brother. She and Sherlock had always got on well, but I told her in all honesty that I did not think that he was up to receiving visitors at the moment, especially family, though I would definitely tell him that we had met. Sherlock evinced little interest at the news, although fortunately I had by this time found a partial outlet for all that energy, working with him to better organize his copious notes. The following day a telegram arrived, asking Sherlock to come to the family home, to which he sent back the single word reply 'No'. 

The meeting with Mrs. Thompson did serve to confirm one thing, which raised a brief if welcome smile from my friend. Lady Holmes had returned and had been been Displeased at her elder sons' actions, and although Mycroft and Bacchus Holmes had found 'urgent business' that had necessitated their leaving town for a while, she had caught up with Ranulph and smacked him – at a court ball in front of the Queen herself! The fellow had had to endure being splashed across the front page of the “Times”, for which I had precisely zero sympathy.

Slowly, things did get better, although I noted that Sherlock was not accepting any of the regular flow of new cases that came in each day's mail. It was not yet officially autumn, yet the weather seemed to have taken a decided turn towards cold. I found myself beginning to wish for a decent case – just a small one, nothing too dramatic or life-threatening, for my sake as much as his – in order to pull my friend out of the depression he seemed to have sunk into.

For once, I got my wish.

+~+~+

“Is there anything of interest in the paper today?”

Sherlock sounded only half-hearted in his request, but it was a rare spark these last few days, and I sought eagerly to keep it alive. I quickly scoured the “Times”.

“The Football Association’s Challenge Cup has been stolen from a shop window in Birmingham”, I read. 

“Hmm”, he said, seemingly disinterested.

“More wars in Africa… some roads still blocked by fallen trees after last night's storms.... rumours of another political crisis, as if that is news… they are trying a new form of rugby football in the North.... oh, and a house has apparently been blown down in Norwood.”

He raised an eyebrow at that last item.

“ _Apparently_ been blown down?” he asked curiously. “Is there some doubt as to whether it is 'down' or 'up'?”

I quickly scanned the short article.

“It seems that it was in the process of being demolished by a group of local builders, and a major wall collapsed because of last night's strong winds”, I said. “Carelessness, I suppose. There was minor damage to a neighbouring property from falling masonry, but fortunately no-one was injured.”

“How odd”, he commented. 

Further conversation was prevented by the arrival of breakfast, and we forswore the paper for the delights of Mrs. Singer’s cooking. At least Sherlock's eyes lit up at the sight of his intolerably crispy bacon. I had noted that our landlady had increased my friend's already copious daily rations of ex-pig, bless her.

Yes, he still got half of mine as well. And I was not 'whipped', thank you very much, so our landlady could keep her sniggering to herself!

+~+~+

It was the following day that the mysterious collapsing house became our very next case, with the arrival of Mr. Lachlan Jones to Baker Street. He was a short, middle-aged man with fiery red hair, and thin to the point of being wiry. When he spoke, he had a slight Scots accent; somewhere in the Borders I judged, as it sounding similar to my dear mother's. 

“You may have read about my case in the newspapers, gentlemen”, he said brusquely. “The matter of Fortinbras House?”

Sherlock looked surprised, but I whispered ‘Norwood’ to him, and he nodded.

“What connection do you have to the building, sir?” he inquired.

“My business was the demolishing of it”, he said. “And someone is trying to demolish my business!”

+~+~+

“I hope that you gentlemen can find the time to come down and see the building for yourself, sir”, he said, still looking indignant, “or at least what remains of it. Fortinbras House was a folly erected some fifty-three years ago by an eccentric retired merchant with more money than sense. Though as a builder I should probably not say that, as those are some of my best clients!”

I smiled as I made notes.

“The area has been much developed since then, and there are now houses up to the edges of its grounds”, he said. “The man himself died some twenty years ago, and the local council recently decided to acquire the land from his grandson, who had just inherited it on the passing of his uncle, the late merchant's son. The young man lives in Morayshire and has no interest in moving to the area, even had he wanted to live in the monstrosity. However, a structural survey showed that the building was on the brink of toppling over, which meant that it would have to be slowly and carefully demolished, especially as it was full four storeys high. Which was where my company came in.”

“You were employed to demolish the property?” Sherlock asked. The man nodded.

“The council invited three bids from local bidders, and chose Smith & Jones”, he said proudly. “There is of course the standard business rivalry with both the other firms, but with one of them, Farish & Sons, it has become quite personal of late. Mr. Roland Farish argued with and disowned his son Philip, who came to work for us part-time whilst he studies at college. Only a few hours a week, but it has greatly soured relations, and they were bad enough to start with. I understand that Mr. Roland Farish has since re-written his will and settled his business on his other son, Paul.”

“What is the other company called?” Sherlock asked.

“Flowerdown Builders”, our guest said. “They are based just over the border in Thornton Heath, so we rarely have dealings with them. Except for the occasional exchange of supplies when one of us is short for some reason, and they have always been helpful enough.”

“Is it your opinion that Mr. Roland Farish was behind the sudden collapse of this building?” Sherlock asked. The man nodded.

“We have lost some equipment on the site, but the worst thing is the damage that it has done to our good name”, he lamented. “Unless I can prove that we were victims of a conspiracy, then our chances of getting future business are poor. And on top of everything else, I had to sack a man recently, a Mr. Sasha Ryazan. Russian or some part of the world around there. I had thought that he was doing a good job, but I caught him taking supplies so that he could sell them on. I do not know if he was in Mr. Farish's pay, but I rather suspect it.”

I wondered if Sherlock would be prepared to leave the relative sanctuary of Baker Street at this time, but he surprised me.

“A breath of fresh air would do us good”, he said. “If you leave your card, I will contact you before I come to Norwood tomorrow. And as my knowledge of the building trade is limited, perhaps you can spare one of your staff to briefly run through the demolition process with me?”

The builder smiled in gratitude.

“Thank you, sir”, he said. He stood, bowed, and left.

+~+~+

“You do not wish to go today?” I asked once the man had gone. He shook his head.

“I wish to do a little research first”, he said. “I have impinged on your good nature long enough, friend. A doctor cannot survive for long on just one grumpy patient.”

“You are the man I love”, I said firmly. “You will always come first. Besides.... I rather like your methods of 'paying your bills'!"

He smiled at that.

+~+~+

The following day was the seventeenth, and we decamped to Victoria Station and a slow London. Brighton & South Coast Railway train which ambled its unhurried way through London's growing southern tendrils before finally attaining West Norwood Station. From there Sherlock elected to first go and see the remains of the Folly. 

It was not a pretty sight. The road itself was closed off, and we had to alight from our cab some distance away. The building must once have looked like a castle keep, judging from what remained of one corner, but the western side of the building had collapsed almost completely, falling across the grounds with some stones clearly having impacted on the roof of the neighbouring house, judging by the holes covered with sheeting. There were men at work erecting scaffolding around the Folly, presumably in an attempt to stabilize it. 

From the wreckage, it was a short cab ride to the builder's yard of Smith & Jones. Mr. Jones greeted us and thanked us for coming, taking us into the main office. 

“This is Mr. Philip Farish”, he said, introducing a fresh-faced young blond fellow with a pleasant expression. “Forgive the discourtesy gentlemen, but the local police have just this minute called and said that they have detained Mr. Ryazan trying to leave the area. I am summoned to the station at once.”

“I am sure that Mr. Farish can answer an questions I may have”, Sherlock said smoothly. “Pray do not keep the guardians of justice waiting, sir.”

The business owner rushed off. Mr. Farish looked after him almost sadly.

“That man has been more of a father to me than my own blood”, he said pensively. “I hope that the police are right, and that Sasha is behind the sabotage.”

“Neither the doctor nor I are conversant with the demolition process”, Sherlock said. “Could you explain it to us, please?”

The young man nodded, and pulled a rolled-up plan out from a shelf, spreading it out onto the table and pinning it down with books.

“I suppose it must seem odd”, he said, “but before we do any demolition, we have to do some building. We test the structure inside and out to detect any weak points, and work out a demolition plan, then see what needs to be strengthened in case it falls down too early. Mr. Jones is very hot on not sending his men into any dangerous situations, far more than my own father I am sorry to say. The Folly was in a terrible state as I remember, and it had to have several structural beams added before we could start work there.”

“So if these beams were removed during the demolition process”, Sherlock asked, “then that would cause a collapse like the one that happened?”

“Someone with the right knowledge – and I have to admit, that includes Mr. Ryazan – could easily weaken or remove the connections where the beams meet the walls”, Mr. Farish said. “In the ensuing wreckage, there would be next to no chance of finding any evidence of such tampering. You presumably saw the mess that just part of the building made in the storm.”

“Is this a blueprint?” I asked. The young man nodded.

“This is one of two sets of the demolition plans”, he said. “Mr. Jones keeps the other on him at all times. He thought something like this might happen, though he actually thought my father would be the one to try something.”

“Very security-conscious”, Sherlock said. “The doctor and I have certain other inquiries to pursue in the area today, but we will return later. Will you still be here?”

“No”, he said. “I have classes from one to four at the local college today, then I go home. I have a small flat above a flower shop in the High Street, number 32A.”

Sherlock hesitated.

“I am afraid that I must ask you for your father's address”, he said, sounding almost apologetic. “I myself do not believe that he is the man behind the Folly's collapse, but Mr. Jones is my client, and if I do not interview a potential suspect, he will think that I am not doing my job.”

“I understand”, Mr. Farish said. “He lives at Number Eight, Little Common, Dulwich. It is a huge place, really its own little estate of twenty properties, each of which backs onto a private green.”

“Thank you”, Sherlock said. “One final question, because the doctor likes to know these things. What happened to Mr. Smith?”

The young man looked confused.

“The company name”, I prompted, wondering how on earth Sherlock had known that I had been wondering just that.

“Oh, I see”, he said. “Mr. Jones' wife was formerly Miss Edna Smith, and her brother Edgar put a lot of money into the firm. In return, he asked for recognition in the name and a share of the profits. He does not play any part in the day to day running of the business; I believe that he is financially well-off enough to support himself. He lives out in north Hertfordshire somewhere near Letchworth. I have never met him myself.”

+~+~+

We adjourned to the High Street and a frankly disappointing little restaurant, where even the pie was soggy and uninspiring. We then took a cab to Dulwich where, perhaps unsurprisingly, the elder Mr. Farish refused to see us in person, and even threatened to call the police if we did not leave. We therefore returned to the builder's yard, where Sherlock asked the secretary, a grizzled elderly lady called Miss Dale (whom he charmed, of course), about the business.

“Mr. Jones works every hour that the Good Lord sends”, she said, sounding faintly disapproving of that fact. “This has been a dreadful ordeal for him.”

“May I ask who has access to the blueprints in the office?” Sherlock inquired.

“Only Mr. Jones and Mr. Farish”, she said firmly. “I do not allow the Men in here!”

I could hear the capital. 

“Miss Dale”, Sherlock smiled, “you are clearly a lady of intelligence. You will know that the police arrested Mr. Ryazan this morning. I have never met him, so may I be permitted to know your opinion of the gentleman?”

“A complete simpleton”, she said, almost scornfully. “But not dishonest. I do not know how those building supplies got to his house, but I would wager a week's earnings that he did not take them.”

“If he did not, then who did?” Sherlock asked.

She looked at him thoughtfully. 

“If you are half as smart as those books make you out to be, then you should already know”, she said.

“I have a fair idea”, Sherlock said. “I saw in the local newspaper that the owner of the property adjoining the Folly, which was itself damaged, is threatening to sue Mr. Jones.”

“Then time is of the essence”, she said. “A character stain, once made, rarely comes out.”

To my surprise, Sherlock laughed.

“I agree”, he said. “Maybe it is time for an application of bleach.”

+~+~+

Mr. Jones returned shortly after three o'clock.

“The police are holding him, but he denies it all”, he grumbled. “Damnation!”

“Innocent men usually do tend to deny false accusations made against them”, Sherlock said dryly. The builder looked at him in surprise.

“Mr. Ryazan is innocent?” he asked.

“You owe that man an apology”, Sherlock said firmly. “Even if he was framed.”

“Framed?”

“Sir, I need you to think hard”, Sherlock urged. “Your efficient secretary, Miss Dale, tells us that you never let the plans for the demolition of the Folly out of your sight. Is that correct?”

“Yes, of course.” 

Sherlock looked hard at him.

 _“Really?”_ he asked. Mr. Jones looked at us in confusion. 

“I always kept the originals on me, in case that rat Farish persuaded one of my men to alter the plans in the office”, he said. “At all times. I never.....”

His face suddenly went very pale. 

“Oh Lord no!”

“You have remembered the incident when you were momentarily separated from the plans”, Sherlock said.

The builder nodded.

“And you remember who it was who ran after you, and gave them to you?”

Another nod.

“Can it be proven?” he muttered. “You have seen the wreckage. Surely there is no proof?”

“There may yet be”, Sherlock said with a smile. “But we shall have to be a little unethical in obtaining it.”

+~+~+

We called in briefly at Mr. Farish's flat in the High Street, but although it was five o'clock he was not back from college yet. Sherlock asked the landlady one or two questions, and seemed pleased with her answers. I was less pleased with the fact that she openly simpered at him, and his smirk that said quite plainly that he knew that I was jea..... irked at the delay.

+~+~+

I was a little hurt when, the following morning, Sherlock asked if he could have our rooms to meet someone in private. Clearly I was useless at hiding my feelings at times like this, and when I returned later, he confronted me.

“You are upset.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“I know you always do things for a reason”, I said, trying to sound disinterested.

He did not immediately answer, but lifted something from next to him by the chair. At first I thought it was a framed picture, but on closer inspection I recognized that it was a blueprint.

“The demolition plans?” I asked. “But why are they framed? And how do you have them?”

He smiled. 

“I shall answer one of those questions”, he said. “I knew who had them, but I am averse to breaking and entering myself when I can avoid it. Besides which, I know full well that you would have insisted on accompanying me, and I am more risk-averse that normal just now. So, I employed a specialist.”

“A specialist?” I asked.

“A certain Mr. Tobias Brunswick, one of the best thieves in London”, he said. “Some time ago he was accused of committing a theft for which he was, for once, not responsible, and I succeeded in proving that he had been, as they say, 'fitted up'. I am sorry that I had to evict you this morning, but he is one of my 'acquaintances' who is by his nature reluctant to deal with anyone but myself.”

“I do not remember the case”, I said, still feeling a little testy.

“It was between Piccadilly and my return, second time around”, he said, looking at me beseechingly. Which was completely unfair; how could I stay mad when he looked like that? I sighed heavily.

“I forgive you”, I said. “Provided you tell me everything about this case.”

“We are going down to Norwood to meet with Mr. Jones shortly”, he said. “But before.... I sent out before you came back and ordered pie.”

If he thought that I could be so easily bought... then he was damn well right!

+~+~+

There were six of us in the main office of Smith & Jones; Sherlock and myself, Mr. Jones, Mr. Philip Farish, Mr. Ryazan and a policeman from the local station, Constable Clark (as with most policemen these days, he looked depressingly young, I thought). Mr. Ryazan, a short, dark blond fellow of about thirty years of age, was visibly trembling.

“Mr. Jones”, Sherlock said. “Yesterday we had a discussion which, I suspect, showed that there was one person in this room who was doing their level best to destroy your business.”

“I am innocent!” Mr. Ryazan declared roundly.

"Yes, II know”, Sherlock said blithely. The foreigner looked up in shock at that.

“But you are accusing me of destroying that building!” he insisted.

“I do not recall that _I_ accused you of doing anything”, Sherlock said airily. He turned to the policeman. “You have a set of handcuffs on you, constable?”

“Yes, sir”, the policeman said.

“Then please do me the courtesy of placing them on..... this man.”

As he was speaking, he walked around the table, and placed a heavy hand on young Mr. Farish's shoulder. The man jumped, but laughed.

“Really, Mr. Holmes!” he said. “Why would I try to destroy the man who gave me a job when my father threw me out?”

“The game is up”, Sherlock said with a smile. “But since you insist on denying it, I will tell 'the man who gave you a job when your father threw you out' just how you betrayed him, and why.”

Mr. Farish smiled, but it looked slightly forced.

“You and your father decided some time ago to destroy your main business rival”, Sherlock said. “His getting a contract that you had wanted was the last straw. You faked an argument with your father, and moved out to a small flat over a shop in the High Street. But the landlady there says that you are hardly ever in residence. And I would wager that when the police check the comings and goings at the house of the father who has allegedly disowned you, they will find that you feature somewhat prominently.”

The young man had gone pale. Sherlock continued.

“Attending college requires much more money than you earn from your part-time post here”, he said. “Your first act was particularly vile. In order to create a suspect for what you were planning, you moved some supplies from the yard to the house of Mr. Ryazan here, knowing that he would be sacked for stealing. A foreigner makes a tempting target, and I am sorry to say, Mr. Jones, that you allowed your xenophobia to mislead you in that.”

The business owner blushed. Sherlock turned back to Mr. Farish.

“You next created two alternative sets of blueprints for the demolition task”, Sherlock went on. “Exchanging the office ones would be easy, and you had the opportunity to exchange the others when Mr. Jones rushed out of the office one day leaving them behind. You, being the dutiful employee, hurried after him – but the plans you gave him were the altered ones, designed by you so that the building would collapse, preferably whilst your employer's men were working on it. It was only through Providence that a strong gale came through the area, and frustrated your plans.”

“You have no proof!” Mr, Farish almost snarled. “This is just words.”

Sherlock smiled unpleasantly, and walked over to the door.

“Miss Dale?” he called out.

Clearly the secretary handed him the framed blueprint, because he came back with it. Mr. Farish's eyes bulged.

“Criminals such as you and your father like to have trophies of your 'successes'”, Sherlock said sharply. “You both worked on this in making the copy. I think that your father may find it difficult to explain to the police exactly how both his and your fingerprints are on a blueprint that came from his rival's office. And furthermore, precisely how that plan then ended up framed and hanging in his own study in Dulwich - and yes, the person who extracted it for me first obtained a rather incriminating photograph.”

Mr. Farish sprang up and lunged at Sherlock, who stepped nimbly back. I did not hesitate, but leaped forward and punched the guilty man squarely on the jaw, eliciting a satisfying crunch before he slumped to the floor, groaning. The constable had the cuffs on him in seconds, and hauled him from the room.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes”, Mr. Jones smiled. “I cannot tell you what a relief this is. You have rid me of a blight that I did not even know I had, and cleared my name. I assume that you will be sending me your bill?”

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully.

“No, sir”, he said.

The business owner looked surprised.

“No?”

“This has been just the case I needed after a recent and very unpleasant case”, Sherlock said. “I will not be levying any direct charges. However....”

He wagged a finger at Mr. Jones.

“You owe Mr. Ryazan here an apology”, he said reprovingly. “His job back, if he chooses to have it, and back-pay from the date that he was unfairly sacked through to when he resumes his post here or finds other employment. Otherwise I may have to tell the papers that whilst your company was the victim here, the xenophobia on your part was uncalled for. Good day, sir.”

He strolled from the building, and I followed him.

+~+~+

I had read somewhere that, given the right circumstances, it was possible for a man wearing a cock-ring to break through its restrictive grip. And with Sherlock having taken me for the fourth time in a row, if that was ever going to happen it might well be now.

My birthday surprise for Sherlock's forty-first was a night away at a rather unique and accommodating bed and breakfast place I had read about in Petworth, Sussex. I had secretly packed us both some clothes in my doctor's bag, which always went with us, and the look of gratitude on his face when he realized my plans on West Norwood Platform One had been almost too much. Though not as much as now.

Sherlock had long had a preference to take me what was called 'doggy-style', with me on my hands and knees on the bed whilst he repeatedly impaled me from behind. Of course this being his birthday I had brought our small but growing collection of sex toys with me – thank Heavens we did not live in one of those countries where the police inspected people's private bags, or I would have had some serious explaining to do to some official personage! - and told him that as a treat, he could do whatever he liked with me (yes, I know this was a normal state of affairs, and shut up!). He had taken that literally, slipping on a cock-ring at once and then inserting the vibrator. I had no senses left to speak of, but I was just a great lump of blissed-out happiness.

The vibrator was removed and quickly replaced with pure Sherlock, and I groaned as he went straight for my prostate. I was sure that I could hear the metal of the cock-ring groaning as I strained at it, but it still held, denying me release. Sherlock, the bastard, had said that he would remove it before we left, but I was not allowed to come until we were back in Baker Street. The thought of a long and often bumpy train-ride whilst trying not to explode only added fuel to the fire, and I groaned somewhere between pain and ecstasy.

Sherlock finally came again inside me – it was frankly amazing the amount of times that he could manage that – and this time just slumped on top of me, pushing me down onto the bed and rubbing my over-sensitive cock with his hand against the sheets. I sighed again.

“Why here?” he whispered in my ear. Why he was whispering I had no idea; it was a blessing both that there were no other guests and that the owners were known for their discretion.

“Breakfast!” I managed to gasp out. Conversation might have been easier had he not been nibbling away at my ear, which he knew was one of my primary erogenous zones. He let go of my cock to tweak my nipples, and I grunted happily.

“What about breakfast?” he asked. “I am building up quite an appetite after all this.”

“Good”, I managed, having just enough energy to turn my head and avoid speaking straight into the pillow. “Because they not only do some of the best bacon in Sussex, but they also do all you can eat.”

He had been busy sucking another love-bite into my neck, but stopped and instead kissed over it.

“I love you so much”, he whispered. “You are mine, John, whatever people say. All mine!”

And incredibly he started to become hard again, and began to pound into me anew. Honestly, the things I put up with for that man!

+~+~+

Some faraway islands in the eastern oceans provided our next case, which Sherlock would be able to solve thanks to a pair of knitted socks.


End file.
